


The Encampment

by Beleriandings



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-07
Updated: 2015-03-07
Packaged: 2018-03-16 19:50:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3500762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beleriandings/pseuds/Beleriandings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finrod invites Maedhros and Maglor to Estolad to meet Bëor and his family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Encampment

“We should be about there by now” said Maglor, looking at Maedhros who was riding beside him. “Let me look at that map again. Findaráto’s directions - ”

“Cousins!” came a cheerful voice through the trees. “You managed to find us!”

“That’ll be him” said Maedhros with a slight smile, reigning up.

Sure enough, as soon as they had stopped Finrod appeared from amidst the trees. “I wanted to meet you myself, before you reached Estolad” he explained, as he clasped arms in greeting, first with Maedhros and then with Maglor.

“Ah yes” said Maedhros, raising an eyebrow. “The place you spoke of in your letter. And the people that you… _found_ …?”

“More or less” said Finrod cheerfully. “I am sorry if I worried you, leaving unexpectedly like that.”

“ _Now_  you apologise” muttered Maglor, under his breath.

“Well, yes” said Finrod, turning slightly pink. “But I did send you a letter, did I not?”

“Yes, tell us more of that” said Maedhros, mounting up again beside Finrod. “ _People_ , you say? People unlike us?”

Finrod’s face grew momentarily grave and sorrowful as they began to ride. “They are the aftercomers who were spoken of, I am certain of it.”

A cloud crossed Maglor’s face. “Given the storm that even the whispers of their coming blew up in Tirion, should not attempts to communicate with them be conducted a little more…  _delicately_ …? Who else amongst our own people have you told of this, Findaráto?”

“I have sent letters to my brothers and sister, and to our uncle” said Finrod, waving a hand dismissively. “All with the utmost discretion, I assure you. But really, there’s no need to worry so, Macalaurë. I believe we were  _meant_  to meet them.” His eyes shone. “ _I_  was meant to meet them. No harm will come of it, I promise you. But come… here is what I wanted to show you…” they crested a small rise, the trees thinning out around them, “cousins,” he said, smiling as they looked down into the rolling slope before them into the broad, treeless glen, “welcome to Estolad.”

Maedhros’ eyes widened in surprise as he took in the camp, quickly estimating the number encamped there from the thin columns of smoke rising in the cold air. _There must be at least a few hundred, probably more…_ it was hard to tell. There was activity down there, he could see, earthworks and the building of wooden huts. He was suddenly reminded of humble beginnings of their own camp at lake Mithrim. “Findaráto” he said slowly. “From what you told me, I mean… I did not expect - ”

“My lords!” said a cheerful voice from behind them. “Finrod, you found your cousins then? Down in the valley, we were beginning to wonder where you’d got to.”

Maedhros and Maglor beside him started at the voice, for it was unlike any they had heard, just slightly different in a subtle, indefinable way. Coming towards them was a man with brown, curling hair and beard, dressed in thick furs against the chill air and heavy boots. He was short, though not as short as the Khazad that Maedhros had known and spoken with. His face was strangely lined, not smooth like all of the faces of the Eldar, except perhaps for Maedhros himself, scarred as he was. But the most noticeable thing about him, the thing that struck Maedhros immediately, was his mind, laid open like a book to be read by any who would glance at it. The initial politely non-intrustive brush of ósanwe that the Eldar habitually extended to each other on meeting was not met with the customary returned touch, nor with a backlash, nor with an acceptance. The man seemed not to notice or acknowledge it all. Even the pattern of his thoughts was unfamiliar.  _As though he has no mind-speech_ , realised Maedhros, surprised and a little disorientated, as though having a conversation with one whom he could not see, or who could not see him.  

If the man noticed Maedhros’ scrutiny, though, he made no sign of it, as Finrod introduced him. “My cousins, this is my friend, Bëor. Bëor, these are the lords Maedhros and Maglor, sons of Fëanor and lords of the northern Marches.”

“Pleased to meet you at last. I have heard much of you both from this one here” Bëor indicated Finrod “but I should like to learn a little more.” Bëor was regarding them curiously and Maedhros tried to avoid peering too deeply into the man’s mind as he clasped each of their arms in turn. He used a left handed grip, different from the way the greeting was normally done amongst the Eldar, which suited Maedhros just fine.  _I might adopt that at Himring_ , he thought at Maglor who met his eyes and smiled quickly.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance too” said Maedhros. “I would say that we have heard much about you, but… well…”

“Our cousin Finrod was never very specific in his letters about what manner of people he had met in the woods” Maglor explained. “So please, we would be honoured if you could tell us all you can about yourself, and something of your people’s history.”

“In time, in time” said Finrod, laughing. “Come down into the encampment, cousins. We may talk together, over food and drink and by the fireside.”

———

The fire crackled in the central fire pit, lighting the surrounding faces with a ruddy glow. Maedhros listened to his brother and his cousin speak with Bëor and his family – Bëor’s wife Belwen was also fluent in Sindarin and his two sons Baran and Belen had been largely brought up in it, though many of the others who watched them from the shadows were not – but it was with a strange sense of unease that he watched the evening pass, people talking and laughing and singing, playing wooden harps and flutes and drums (at one point Maglor was roped into playing one of his own compositions, which made all the children and a good few of the adults about the fire drop what they were doing immediately, wide-eyed and rapt with attention) but he could not bring himself to settle and enjoy the evening.

He joined in with the conversation when it came his way; he smiled and stroked the cat that little Belen brought out to show him proudly. The child smiled up at him, cocking his head curiously, and Maedhros wondered a little that the boy wasn’t afraid of him, as many children seemed to be these days. He wondered what cruel wounds the child had seen to make him unafraid of scars;  _these people, fading and weakening and dying, from wounds no more grievous than the passing of a short span of mere decades of the sun…_ the thought of this child, now so young and bright, growing grey and wizened in so short a time, then slipping out of existence with not even the barest chance of reimbodiment made his stomach twist in grief. Surely, even the Enemy could not devise a more terrifying torment.  _At least we Eldar know what doom we are to face. At least we kinslayers know that the everlasting darkness awaits us._

Belen’s cat twined about his small legs as the child stared up at him, silent and thoughtful. “Why do you only have one hand?” he blurted at last.

Before Maedhros could answer, Belwen was breaking into the conversation. “Hush, little one. You’re being rude to our honoured guest.” She scooped up her son by the waist, smiling apologetically at Maedhros. “I’m sorry, my lord.”

He inclined his head, the ghost of a rueful smile touching his lips. “Do not worry, my lady. It is certainly a fair question to ask, but I fear, it is not a tale for one so young.”

“Will you tell me one day? Do you promise?”

Maedhros’ hesitation was almost imperceptible. “I cannot promise. But I will certainly try to return to you in some years time, and then I will tell you, if you want to hear.”

The child nodded, springing suddenly away to chase his cat.

Meanwhile, Finrod and Bëor were recounting the day of their first meeting to Maglor, who was listening intently, while Baran sat upon his father’s lap.

———-

“You’ll stay the night, I assume?” asked Finrod, as Bëor and his elder son extinguished the last glowing embers of the fire. “There’s places for you prepared, next door in the - ”

“Findaráto,” Maedhros interrupted, lowering his voice and pulling Finrod aside. “You know we cannot save them from the fate that awaits when at their lives’ end?”

Finrod raised an eyebrow. “You don’t want me getting attached, you mean Nelyo? You are about to tell me I should not befriend them, for they are soon to die?”

Maedhros ran his fingers through the front of his hair. “I… I don’t know. I don’t know what to think.”

“Their fate is bound with ours, already, Nelyo. I was _meant_  to find them.” Finrod fairly glowed, his smile warm. “Hmm? Besides, we all may die out here yet.”

“It’s not the same and you know it.”

Finrod raised an eyebrow once more, and Maedhros did not need to see his mind to know what he was thinking; _not for me, at least_. Maedhros was grateful that Finrod had not said that out loud.

Then Finrod smiled. “I must return to Nargothrond soon” he said. “Bëor is to come with me, though his family and the other chieftains will stay here in Estolad.”

Maedhros understood. “You wanted me to get to meet them, since it will be Himring that safeguards their lands from the Enemy?”

Finrod grinned. “Very astute of you, cousin. I confess, that was one of my motives for bringing you and Macalaurë here, yes.”

They were silent for a while, looking up at the stars together, where they were visible in the open sky bordered by the black silhouettes of trees.

Finally the fire was out, and Belwen and Bëor came to them with their sons. Belwen was holding a sleeping Belen in her arms, his cat twining around her legs. Baran, holding his father’s hand, yawned. “Brr” he said, cricking his neck upwards to look up at Maedhros. “It’s dark and cold now. Father says we must go to sleep.”

“Yes” said Maedhros, crouching down before the child. “Listen to your father, for he gives good advice.”

“Not always” sniffed Baran. “Like that time he told me not to - ”

Bëor laughed, exchanging glances with Finrod. “Come on little one. Time for bed.”

“Awww, father! Can I have a candle? I’m scared of the dark on my own.”

Bëor kissed his son’s head. “Yes, you can have a candle.” He smiled at Maedhros, Maglor and Finrod. “My lords, would you like candles too?”

“I should like one” said Maglor.

“I think I would too” said Maedhros, standing up and smiling down at the child. “It’s a cold, dark night tonight, and candles make things seem better.”

But Baran was not to be placated that easily. “In the morning” he said, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet, “will you teach me to fight with a sword, lord?” he picked up a stray stick that had escaped the hearth, and danced away from his father, slashing at the empty air with it. “Finrod says - ”

“ _Lord_  Finrod” corrected Belwen, with an apologetic smile at Finrod, who waved off the formality genially.

“Lord Finrod says there’s a bad man in the far north. He says he and you and all of your family are fighting him. Will you let me help, when I’m older? Will you teach me how to fight?”

“How old are you, Baran?” asked Maglor.

“He’s seven” said Bëor. “A little too young yet, I should say.”

“But soon” pleaded Baran.

Seven. When Maedhros had been seven, he had played amongst the green grass of Aman, in the light of the trees, caring nothing for swords. Not knowing the meaning of fear. Maedhros sighed, looking at his brother and cousin, filled suddenly with an immeasurable sadness once more. “Soon you will learn, whether from me or not” he said, nodding.  _Too soon_ , he thought to himself, but he did not say this.

“Do you promise?”

“I cannot promise” sighed Maedhros, for the second time that evening. He would have said more, but the child was already half falling asleep on his feet, Bëor lifting him into his strong arms and bearing him off to bed. “We’ll see” he said, stroking his son’s hair with a smile at Maedhros. “We’ll see.”

“Goodnight, my lords” said Belwen, handing them each candles, before she went to follow her husband. “May your night be bright, to keep the dark at bay.”

“What did she mean by that?” asked Maglor of Finrod, when she had gone.

“ _May your night be bright, to keep the dark at bay_. A traditional greeting amongst these people. It’s their way of saying goodnight.” He gestured around. “Is it not fitting?”

It was, thought Maedhros. The stars wheeled overhead as the smoke trailing up into the sky from the fires faded, the doors darkened one by one, though the guards still patrolled the borders. That, at least, reminded Maedhros of his own home, on Himring hill. Always guarded, never quite asleep.

He looked at the tall wax candle in his hand and wondered if it would last the night.


End file.
